“By then she’d started to remember things.” Absently she raises her cuffed hands and touches her head. “Like who she was. Her family. What happened to her that night. She went to the bishop and told him everything. He’d heard about an Amish family in Ohio, the missing wife, the dead husband and children that perished in a fire. He called the bishop in Ohio. That was when she found out they were all dead. That … changed something inside her. And it wasn’t for the better. She left the Amish, became bitter and full of hate. I was only five years old—an innocent—but I knew she hated me, too. And I knew my life would never be the same.”

“What did she do?”

“Over the months and weeks, as her memories returned, she told me everything. The bedtime stories I heard at night weren’t about bunnies or bears or horses. They were about violent men and children burned alive. Every day I learned something new and terrible. About my datt. About my brothers and sisters. And about William. Especially William. The one who, because he was so very prideful, brought evil into their home.”

“You were only a child. You couldn’t have understood.”

“I understood enough. Later, when I was older, I understood more. I understood what I had to do to make things right.”

“Your mother wanted revenge?”

“She wanted justice. God’s justice.” A hint of a smile pulls at her mouth. “I wanted revenge.”

“Ruth, as an adult, surely you know she was mentally damaged, injured. She used you. Brainwashed you. An innocent child.”

“Not so innocent, Chief Burkholder. You see, my mother was never strong. I took care of her. She needed me more than I needed her. She made me strong because she knew I possessed what she did not. I had the strength to do what needed to be done.”

“Did you murder Hoch Yoder?”

She waves off the question. “I didn’t have to. He suffered with the melancholy. Had for years. I knew it was only a matter of time before he ended it. One little push from me, and he was all too happy to oblige.”

“Ruth, he was your half brother. And yet you married him.”

“My mother blamed him for the deaths of her children. I did what needed to be done. I have no regrets.”

“Did he know?”

One side of her mouth trembles, as if she’s withholding a smile. “He knew enough.”

I lean back in my chair, trying to digest everything I’ve heard. It’s not easy. I’ve interrogated dozens of criminals over the years, and many of those interviews left me feeling unsettled and disturbed. But I can honestly say none of them ever made me feel as sick inside as I do at this moment.

“You have no idea which of them is your father, do you?” I ask.